


these boys are just poison

by Wishinglondon



Category: Dream SMP - Fandom, Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Real World, Angst and Humor, Background Relationships, Banter, Canon-Typical Violence, Casino Quackity, Crimes & Criminals, Gambling, Gen, Injury, Murder, Organized Crime, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Swearing, Violence, also theres no non-ship dnf tag?, bodyguard/fixer sapnap and dream, but its open to interpretation ig, dynamic/banter focused, ever seen the gentleman? were going for the gentleman vibes, feral boys do crime, hacker george, i added both just in case, i just followed current canon ships, its not a relationship centered fic, listen its a crime au they do bad things
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-17
Updated: 2021-03-23
Packaged: 2021-03-25 22:28:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,277
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30096084
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wishinglondon/pseuds/Wishinglondon
Summary: Quackity leaned forward in his chair. “We have a common enemy, George. And I think we can help each other.”“Is that so?” George asked, “and how would losing a couple hundred grand in a poker game help me?”Quackity just waved him off, spinning the lone ice cube around in his glass.“Gambling is just a means to an end, George. To get what I want. Sometimes it’s money. Usually, though, it’s secrets. That’s what we have in common. We both deal in secrets. You manipulate computers to get them, I manipulate people. It gets to the same goal; secrets make opportunities where there were none,” Quackity leans forwards on his knees, smile growing as he looks at George, “and the secret on the street is, you’re trying to take down Schlatt.”The feral crew does crime, and they're good at it. (Well, Karl's a research librarian, but he's good at that too.)
Relationships: Alexis | Quackity & Clay | Dream & GeorgeNotFound & Karl Jacobs & Sapnap, Alexis | Quackity/Karl Jacobs/Sapnap, Clay | Dream & GeorgeNotFound, Clay | Dream/GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF)
Comments: 18
Kudos: 47





	1. The Meeting

**Author's Note:**

> Hey y'all!
> 
> I'm pretty new to this fandom but I could not get this criminal idea out of my head for the life of me, so i started writing and it sort of spiraled into this whole thing. I tried to break up the heavy drama with banter bc i prefer lighter fics, so i hope its not too serious for you guys!! 
> 
> These are specifically the characters within the dsmp, and have no connection to the real people who portray them. All errors are my own!!
> 
> The title is from "Trouble" by Valerie Broussard, if you wanna give it a listen :)

George leaned against the dark brick wall of the fight club, half hidden in the shadows and the smoke that travelled from the bonfire out in the lot behind them. A roaring cheer from inside the warehouse drowned out the punches from the alley, a picturesque scene of gritty and dark minded men living up to their titles as the _bad types of people_.

His eyes were fixed on their own boxing ring, the halo of light cast by the dim streetlamp that shined down upon Dream’s mask. The crude smile carved into the mask looked menacing and inhuman in the yellow light, his bright hoodie standing out against the grayish tones of the empty alley. It didn’t matter anyway— he didn’t dress to hide. In fact, most of the time Dream preferred to stand out instead, confident enough in his fighting to steer away from sneak attacks of espionage. Sneaking around was George’s domain.

George surveyed the man at Dream’s feet, slumped over dirty black sneakers and barely conscious, with a semi-steady stream of red dripping from his face onto the black asphalt. He hasn’t learned his name, partly for George’s own safety but mostly because he just couldn’t give a damn, but now he wished he could address the man outright.

It would make it easier to drive home how much of an idiot George thought he was being.

The man heaved on the ground as Dream stopped his administrations, not wanting to go too far just yet. He flexed his knuckles to check for damage unseen under black gloves, curling them back into fists for one last punch before stepping back. Out of pity, George gave him a few seconds of recovery before speaking up again.

“I gotta say, I admire your loyalty, but you’re running out of lives here. I’ve already asked you twice. Three strikes and you’re out, man, that’s it,” George said, leisurely pushing off the wall to stand next to Dream. He disappointed, but not surprised, as the man did nothing but spit blood out on the gravel and refuse to cooperate. Dream sighed, as if the man’s attempts at resistance were nothing more than a nuisance. George knew he enjoyed it though; they were all just a bit evil enough to get a kick out of a good fight.

Not that George would call them evil, per say. Controlling, maybe. Opportunistic. Their main source of information was computers, not people, so times like these didn’t tend to come up too often, but he couldn’t deny the thrill of going _just a bit too far_. He knew Dream felt it too. The fate he held in his hands, the power and control.

Dream moved to rest his foot on the clearly broken fingers hanging limply against the ground. He shifted his weight as he leaned on his knees, lowering his voice as he drew close to the man’s ear.

“Look at him in the eyes when he talks,” Dream demanded, stepping down hard against the fractures. The man flinched in pain, pressure increasing until he finally relented and glared up to meet George’s eyes, painful rage meeting with a sort of sadistic amusement. George crouched down; delicate fingers laced together as he rested his elbows on his knees.

“I’ll ask once more time. Why is Schlatt trying to break into my database?” He asked, voice measured and even. The man stayed steadfastly silent, seething with rage. If he had any control over his arms, George is sure he would’ve tried to attack him. As it was, the man settled for spitting blood in his face.

“Did you just spit on me?” George asked incredulously, the laugh just a shade too maniacal to sound genuine. He grabbed the mans dislocated shoulder and dug his thumb into the strained socket as he used it to stand, the first time he did anything other than watch and ask the same question the past 2 hours. The man slumped back down at the pain, eyes forced to the pavement as George wiped away the blood on his face with the sleeve of his black overcoat, looking at Dream with a sigh.

George stepped back into the shrouded darkness of the alley, to the trunk of the car that blocked the alleyway from anyone who may pass by. Mixed with the yells from the warehouse, it’s enough of a cover to stop any innocents from having to be dealt with. The neighborhood wasn’t new to ignoring the things that went on in shady alleyways at night.

He returned with an axe, spinning it in his hands easily, as if it was a toy, before handing it over to Dream. Though his face was covered, George knew Dreams eyes were bright and gleaming as he stared down at his preferred weapon, hand sliding gently over the handle, a smile burned into the hilt. The streetlight bounced off the treated metal at the head, reflecting slices of light across the brick walls and dumpster next to them. They watched it dance across the alley, like they had all the time in the world.

“You know, axes are so much better than guns, George. They’re just more fun,” he said conversationally, just to piss off the main in front of them further, talking so casually about his death. The man shifts in anger, only to produce a small groan in pain as he puts pressure on a broken bone.

George hummed in agreement. “Makes cleanup a bitch though. Go quickly, yeah? He’s got no use for me anymore.”

He couldn’t fully make out Dream’s grumbled response as he turned back to the black SUV but decided it didn’t matter as he saw the axe rise up in the reflection of the cars back window. The final pleads of mercy faded quickly into background noise as he sat into the passenger seat, content to wait until Dream and was done and drove them home. Every so often he watched someone stumble out of the club, looking a bit worse for wear and bloody from their loses. George regarded them with a casual two fingered wave and a light smile, watching as their eyes widened and they scurried away from any _real_ crime.

It wasn’t long until Dream had opened the back of the trunk, the weight of the wrapped-up tarp tilting the SUV and the thud of the axe bring thrown inside following shortly after. George sighed, bored and tired, staring out into the dirty street as Dream changed into a clean outfit. He slid into the front seat moments later, in practically the same outfit as before, his mask probably holding the only piece of the night’s events on his body. George could guess the hoodie he was wearing was dark green, the bright color from before stuffed in a bag next to the bin in the back, waiting to be burned. 

“I’ll drop the axe off at Schlatt’s hideout when we get back,” Dream said, searching for his sunglasses and simple cloth facemask to drive in now that he no longer needing the fear and intimidation the clay mask provided.

“Don’t the axes get annoying to craft every time you want to make a statement? I don’t understand,” George said conversationally, pulling out the cloth mask that was wedged between the seat and throwing it into Dream’s lap.

“It’s more time consuming, but leaving them the axe as a token heightens the suspense. And the burned smile just adds more to it than just a bloody axe, you know? More aesthetically pleasing, I guess,” He responded, throwing the larger mask into the back and reviewing where the knuckles on his right hand had split open, now that his vision was less obstructed.

George just rolled his eyes, grabbing medical tape and gauze from the glove compartment and handing it to Dream without prompt. His signature poorly drawn smile now stretched in white embroidery across his mouth and nose, meeting up with the dark sunglasses on the bridge and shielding most of his face from view, but George knew he was sporting an appreciative look. 

“ _Aesthetically pleasing_ , he says. You’re committing a crime, not making a painting,” George laughed, slipping back into their easy banter now that their night was over.

“Yeah, well, it works out well for you, doesn’t it? You reap all the benefits without doing any of the work,” Dream quipped back, laughing at George’s noise of offense.

“Oh, I’m so _sorry,_ Dream, that I can’t be the one running an entire info hacking crime syndicate _and_ be the infamous secret killer,” taunted George, “you know what? I’m leaking your identity _right now_ , and everyone will know the big bad Dream is some video game nerd named _Clay_ , how about that?”

Dream just rolled his eyes, ripping the medical tape with his teeth and throwing it back into Georges lap. They both knew George would never expose him like that— there was too much on the line for them both to have Dreams identity be revealed. Dream went to say as much before he glanced down at George’s sleeve, pointing at the dark stains where George wiped the man’s blood off his face.

“You should take that coat off, you’re gonna need to burn it with the rest of the stuff,” he detoured. George wrinkled his nose in annoyance, whining a bit as he stomped his feet like a petulant child.

“Are you serious? I _just_ bought this jacket, it’s nice!” George complained, hitting his head against the headrest with a pout.

“Okay, well, you know what’s also nice, George? Not getting arrested for murder.”

“I didn’t even kill him, technically. And I’m pretty sure hackers get sent to like, Interpol or something like that when they get caught, not prison,” George defended.

“You’re such an idiot,” Dream said, exasperation clear in his voice. “Just take it off.” 

Begrudged, George took off the jacket, careful to not hit the car with the sleeve before throwing it onto the black leather interior. He adjusted his dark blue cable knit sweater back into place, continuing complain until he looked out through the windshield and abruptly cut himself off.

“Uh, Dream?” He said curiously, nodding to the man staring at them from the front of the alley.

“Yeah, I got it,” Dream said, grabbing the gun from the glovebox and checking the bullets before stepping back out of the car.

George took a mental inventory of the man, sizing him up. 

His hands were wrapped, presumably meaning he had just left the club, but he didn’t look like he had taken any real damage. The blood on his white tee shirt didn’t appear to be his, meaning he was at least a bit experienced in fights. He didn’t move closer or further as Dream walked up to him, eyes somewhat pensive, like he was trying to figure something out.

The conversation was short and non-violent for a change, almost familial as Dream lightly grabbed the side of the man’s arm. He didn’t flinch away or seem startled by it, unfazed in a way people rarely were meeting Dream for the first time, especially with a visible gun. Before George knew it, Dream was back in the car with a business card in hand.

“You know him,” George concluded as he took the card from Dream, looking over quizzically when he found nothing but a cartoon duck and an appointment time.

“Old friend, I guess. You know that fight club I was in as a kid? The Community House? He was my best friend there— we used to be there together all the time. Recognized my mask, apparently,” he said, pulling out of the alleyway and onto the street. “He works for some guy now, Quackity. I don’t know him that well, but if he was able to get Pandas, I thought he might be worth talking to. Pandas was _good_.”

“How good?” George asked, playing with the edge of the card. He shrugged, his mask matching what George could tell was a cocky smile.

“I’m better.”

...

The buzzing of the gate shook George out of his focused haze, the fuzzy surroundings of his office snapping back into reality as he looked up from his laptop. He blinked hard, squinting across the mahogany desk in confusion. Dream met his eyes from where he leant back in his chair at the other side, his arm poised to throw the fidget toy he had been tossing up for the past 10 minutes.

A knock came to the door a couple seconds later, Bad entering with his black demon facemask held in his hand by his side as he spoke.

“George, two men are here to see you. They said they had an appointment,” he relayed, continuing when the confusion on George’s face didn’t clear. “One of them was wearing a beanie, the other looked like a Mortal Kombat character? Neither gave their names though, just gave a business card with a duck and said you would know.”

“Oh! It’s the Quackity thing isn’t it,” George asked, flipping his written calendar open to today’s page. Sure enough, in simple code, was the meeting. He sighed, staring at the code on his screen before starting the process of saving the new algorithm he was working on.

“I was almost done with this but too— Bad, you’re supposed to tell me when these things are,” he whined, drawing out an exasperated eye roll from the man.

“It’s in your calendar! When you gave me the card I said, _do you want me to remind you George_? And you said _no Bad, I’m a big boy, just put it in my calendar,_ ” Bad defended immediately, hands thrown around in wild gestures. He growled in defeat at George’s defeated gaze. “Do you want me to make him wait? I can tell Ant to hold him at the gate.”

“It’s fine, let them in. I’ll meet them in the bar, I suppose.” George responded, jumping back into action. He closed his laptop, locking it quickly in his drawer before shoving Dreams feet off of the desk, slamming them onto the hardwood floors. Bad put his mask back on and shuffled out of the room, his all black outfit and gloves contributing to a dramatic flair they’ve all long since gotten used to.

George threw a cable knit sweater over his t-shirt, standard practice after Bad told him wearing Supreme shirts to negotiations made him look even more like a 16-year-old in over his head. Honestly, he didn’t think it helped all that much. People still underestimated him, which was fine. You didn’t need to be physically intimidating to be a hacker. You just needed to be _good_.

Dream picked up his mask from where it was discarded on the light marble floor, sliding it on with a sigh. He cracked his neck, settling back into his role as the stoic killer.

After a few minutes of debating their game plan, they left the office to walk down the muted blue hallway. The walls were clean and proper, accented with bright white trim and art that’s as expensive as it was stolen, traded in for secrets George could provide.

The two men were sat at the low black marble table when they walked in but rose from the brown leather chairs to shake George’s hand.

“Hello, you must be George! What’s up man, how you doing? Quackity,” the shorter man said, pointing to himself. The easy brightness in his voice threw George for a slight loop before he recomposed himself with an amused smile.

He mentally traced the jagged scar that ran through Quackity’s eye, stopping just around his cheekbone. It gave his non-threatening demeanor a chaotic tilt, like a crack in the glamour. It suited him, George noted, in a way that probably would scare most people.

“That’s me. I’m doing well, thank you. This is Dream, though you may have already known that.”

Quackity shook his hand as well, and George repeated the curtesy to Sapnap. He gestured them back down to sit, after they’ve been properly introduced, the blanket of pleasantry not yet broken.

“Your house is very nice,” Quackity said conversationally, glancing around the dark wood of the bar room.

George hummed in response. The room was polished and clean, much like the rest of the house, though the accents of dark wood and black marble made for a much more sinister atmosphere than the usual blue and white tones. There were no windows, making the air feel just a bit thicker, the words spoken with a bit more weight.

There was a reason why these meetings occurred in the bar room.

A knock at the door came quickly before Bad walked in with a silver tray, the contrast between the bone-chilling mask and the domestic action forcing a surprised laugh from Quackity. He placed the tray down, earning a long sigh from Dream as they gazed down at the platter.

“Are those... muffins?” Quackity said incredulously.

“Hm, yes. They’re pistachio. They work well with the whisky.”

“Bad,” George groaned.

“What? The vanilla in the whisky compliments the nutty flavor of the muffin!”

“Man’s got a taste for nutty flavors I guess,” Quackity murmured to Sapnap, like he was trying to refrain but couldn’t quite get himself quiet. Sapnap stifled a laugh; George found himself stuck between rolling his eyes or giving into the joke. He ignored them in favor of berating the man standing.

“Bad, you can’t just bring muffins in here like this, it’s weird,” he said, earning a noise of protest. He turned to face the man next to him, who had yet to speak to their visitors.

“Dream? Kill him,” George commanded seriously, gaining a bit of satisfaction at watching the alarm shoot across Quackity’s face. A further spark of amusement ran through him as he watched Quackity debate intervening, eyes fliting between Dream and Bad who made no move to suggest trouble.

“I’m not killing Bad, George,” Dream dismissed easily. “I don’t want to get stabbed _again_.”

“I said I didn’t know it was you! I told you multiple times I keep knives on me, so why would it be a good idea to— “

“Bad, just go. Seriously. We have real things to talk about,” George cut him off, pushing Dream back into his seat where he had started to rise, always ready to bicker about _The Incident_. Bad grumbled as he left, Dream chuckling under his breath as George glared at him.

“Who the fuck _was_ that?” Quackity asked, a mixture of laughter and shock clear in his voice.

George picked up the decanted Scottish whisky and poured out a glass. He offered one to Quackity, who took it, and poured another for himself.

“My accountant.”

“Really?” Quackity responded, stunned.

“No,” George laughed over his glass, gesturing to the muffins on the table. “You can take a muffin if you want, they’re not poisoned.”

“That’s exactly what someone who poisoned the muffins would say,” Quackity responded, not taking a sip from his glass until he watched George do so. George sighed, taking a muffin from the plate and picking off a piece, making a show of swallowing it before Quackity and Sapnap took one as well, careful not to refuse a show of hospitality a second time.

“You know what,” Quackity said with a laugh, “he was right. These _do_ go well together.”

“I wouldn’t know, I think all whisky is shit,” George commented, bringing the glass back down to the table. A silence passed over the room, letting the light conversation pass into something deeper.

“So, you know Dream, Sapnap?” George asked. Sapnap’s eyes flickered over to the clay mask, as if he was unsure how much to give away. It struck George as oddly loyal, for a friend he hadn’t seen in years.

George had looked into him, of course after he found out he knew Dreams face. He wanted to know what it would mean for them— more specifically, if they were being set up for blackmail. Dream insisted he didn’t think there would be a problem; he’d apparently kept tabs on Pandas in the industry until he went off the grid. When they realized he could be picked back up as Sapnap, they searched that too— neither had any offerings of Dream’s information on the black market.

“Yeah. Haven’t seen him in a while though. Not since The Community House.”

George nodded, shuffling through the pictures in his head until he called upon one of Dream at that age. Young. Different than now, but not too different. Enough to be recognized on sight by Sapnap himself in a line up maybe, but probably not enough to be connected from a police sketch.

It worried George, but Dream said trusted him, enough to keep him alive with his identity, which was good enough for now.

“Okay,” George accepted, noting the barely audible sigh of relief that came out of Dream’s mouth. _Interesting_.

“Now, the real order of business. What do you do, Quackity?” George asked, leaning back in his seat, hands loosely woven together to rest on his stomach.

“I think you know what I do,” he responded.

George shrugged.

“So don’t lie then.”

“I run two of the biggest casinos on the island,” Quackity said with a shrug, voice turning cocky and full of mirth, “and I run some games for friends, just for fun.”

George hummed in acknowledgment.

“And why are you here?” he inquired. “What would I want with an underground gambling ring, Quackity?”

Quackity leaned forward in his chair, “We have a common enemy, George. And I think we can help each other.”

“Is that so?” George asked, “and how would losing a couple hundred grand in a poker game help me?”

Quackity just waved him off, spinning the lone ice cube around in his glass.

“Gambling is just a means to an end, George. To get what I want. Sometimes it’s money. Usually, though, it’s secrets. That’s what we have in common. We both deal in secrets. You manipulate computers to get them, I manipulate people. It gets to the same goal; secrets make opportunities where there were none,” Quackity leans forwards on his knees, smile growing as he looks at George, “and the secret on the street is, you’re trying to take down Schlatt.”

George controlled his surprise.

“What does Schlatt have to do with you?” George asked. Last he checked, Schlatt’s election campaign had no ties to any underground games or rings; almost to the point where it didn’t make any sense. For such a corrupt politician, Schlatt’s campaign was spotless— it was one of his biggest red flags.

“Don’t worry about that for now— let’s just say he fucked over the wrong guy, and he’s too overconfident to realize what a mistake he made. I’ve got some files that might be of interest to you, some ways into his system to make his dealings seem less like the _Bellagio_ and more like a motel in seaside heights.”

George thought it over for a moment, appraising Quackity’s manner. He stayed confident under the scrutiny, sipping the last of the whisky and chasing it with the muffin. He seemed to be enjoying himself, the tense nature of the job and the delicate balance of not getting caught weighing little on his shoulders. He was full of chaos and hunger, controlled only by his desire to be the one in charge; no wonder he had been drawn to gambling. He shone his easy madness out of every fiber of his being, just off putting enough to know he was dangerous, down to the slight clashing of his semi-formal attire and navy sports beanie on his head. It should make George wary— he already had enough firecrackers to deal with.

But chaos draws chaos; he couldn’t help but kind of like the guy.

“Okay,” George decided. “We’ll meet by you next. How’s Tuesday at… 4pm?”

Quackity smiled, waving the empty glass with a flare and setting it back down on the silver tray.

“Tuesday’s great. I’ve got a game to run at 6, which I’m assuming you wouldn’t like to partake in. I’ll keep the offer open though, if you’re ever interested.”

“Maybe. I’m not much of a risk taker myself, but Dream likes to gamble sometimes. Might be a nice change of pace to use money and not his life,” George said, mainly just to laugh at the scoff and the _oh, come on now,_ that he knew would come from the man next to him. Sapnap laughed a bit too, smiling in what George assumed to be a fond memory.

Quackity nodded, slapping his knees with finality.

“It’s settled, then. I’ll send someone with the location on Tuesday,” he said brightly, glancing around the room before pointing to the open door next to the bar. “Is it alright if I use your bathroom?”

He excused himself from the room after a gesture of acceptance from George, shifting the center of attention back onto the other visitor.

With Quackity gone, Sapnap shifted in his seat, glancing between the other two men. He absentmindedly fixed the sleeves of his black sports jacket, just to give himself something to do in the uneasy silence. He didn’t seem scared or nervous, not from what George could tell, more as though he was apprehensive over what they might say; what he’ll have to relay back to Quackity after they’d left.

“What did you tell him I looked like?” Dream asked finally. He wasn’t accusing or mad in his tone, as if he was simply curious to hear the answer.

Sapnap just smiled lightly with a shrug, facing the mask head on without the usual finch of those not used to seeing it, the typical traces of uneasiness from the stories of the man himself absent from his relaxed posture.

“You know what I said, Dream? I said you’re the most average looking piece of shit I’ve ever met,” Sapnap responded with a laugh, his bluntness taking George by surprise after staying quiet for most of the conversation.

“Oh, so you lied, that’s fine,” Dream shot back, smile clear in his voice.

It threw George off, seeing Dream so casual with someone who wasn’t a part of their little group. He hadn’t thought of the possibility much. The idea that someone could know Dream from _before_ , not after all these years of being _Dream: the god; the axe murderer; the crazy, ruthless madman who will stop at nothing to bend the world to his will._

“Honestly? He’s never asked,” Sapnap said, causing George’s eyebrows to shoot up in surprise; Dream’s identity was useful information, especially for people like them. 

“What?” Dream asked incredulously, “ever?”

They heard the faint flush of the toilet as Sapnap laughed at their shock, pushing off his knees to stand up.

“Well— he asked many, _many_ times, just to be clear. But _actually_ asked? Nah, he wouldn’t do that. Not to me,” he said seriously, holding out a hand to Dream for him to stand as well.

Dream took it, grabbing Sapnap’s forearm with his other in an accentuated handshake.

“I wouldn’t have blamed you if you did,” Dream responded, earning a scoff from Sapnap as Quackity reentered the room.

“Yes, you would’ve, don’t goddamn lie to me,” Sapnap dismissed without malice, a final clasp of Dreams shoulder ending their talk before moving to stand next to Quackity.

George and Dream walked the two men to the door, exchanging pleasant goodbyes as Ant met them to take them to their car, cat mask firmly in place. Quackity pointed at it with a smile, before turning around to face them and stroll backwards down the cobbled sidewalk.

“Hey, tell the guy with the demon mask that the muffins were a good choice. Why do you all wear fucking masks anyway? Or why don’t you?”

“Goodbye, Quackity!” George smiled in response; the questions left unanswered as he closed the clean white door.

George laughed a bit to himself in disbelief before looking at Dream, who just shrugged before taking off his mask and throwing it on the table next to the door.

“He’s so... _much_ ,” George said, “I kinda like it.”

“A duo where Pandas is the calm one is a recipe for disaster,” Dream responded as they moved back to the office, walking past Georges desk and to the hidden door behind the bookshelf. “Though they could say the same thing about us, I suppose.”

“I think I’m the calm one,” George insisted, unlocking the keypad to what Dream has affectionately named _the Hacker Room,_ much to George’s (fake) dismay. Three computers, all set up with 4 monitors each, were set up in a semicircle around the room with stacks of hard drives and USB’s filtered into boxes filling the rest.

“Trust me, you’re not,” Dream laughed, “being a borderline sociopath who doesn’t care about things doesn’t make you a calm person. It makes you insane.”

“Says who?” George asked absentmindedly, starting the center computer setup up as Dream kicks his feet up on the desk. He pushed notes of lines of old code littering the desk with his shoe, reminders of algorithms and back entries to firewalls discarded once broken into.

Dream grabbed a few and threw a balled up post-it note at the back of Georges head, smiling when he finally turned his head in annoyance. Dream flipped him off, throwing another square at his forehead. 

“Says the one who has to kill the people who piss you off.”


	2. The Plan

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ayee next chapter!! this went in somewhat of a different direction than i previously intended, but it makes so much more sense this way lmao
> 
> Thank you so much for the comments on the last chapter, i appreciate it!
> 
> all mistakes are my own :)

George stared up at the large brick building in stunned silence. Dream stood at his side, spinning his keys around on his fingers as he furrowed his brow and looked back down at the paper dropped off by Sapnap hours prior.

“Is this actually it?” George asked.

“It’s the right address,” Dream responded, “I checked.”

It was particularly sunny out— George had on his write rimmed sunglasses and still he needed to shield his eyes to read the sign at the top of the wide arched doors.

“A... historical research library,” George drawled out in disbelief, exuding a small laugh as he pointed to the flyer posted on the cork board to the right of the door. 

“Look, it’s poker night.”

“Maybe it’s a front,” Dream suggested, pushing his mask further up his nose. He had switched out his full faced clay mask for his fabric half one and dark glasses, the black on black embroidered smile just invisible enough to go undetected by the common passerby in broad daylight. They weren’t used to walking around during the day; light hours were usually spent holed up inside on computers or sleeping off the night prior. George felt that the sun felt particularly nice on his skin, despite the cool breeze.

“A pretty expensive front, especially when you run a casino anyway,” George responded with a shrug, “I guess we’re about to find out.”

They walked up the cement steps, curving around the metal detectors and into the entry hall of the library. The textured brown stone flooring and dark red walls gave it an earthy feel, that went nicely with the sheer amount of plants that sat along the front desk. Behind it, a lone man in an oversized purple sweater sat reading. He looked up at them as they walked to the front, smiling sweetly as he placed the book, _the Masquerade_ , on top of the half written notes he was taking.

“You must be George and Dream,” he said as he stood, extending a hand. George shook it in amused confusion, glancing around for any sign of Quackity or Sapnap. The only indicator they could be in the correct place at all were the 10 round poker tables that filled the room behind the man, each with a small card that read _Sponsored by The Las Navadas Casino Hotel!_ in bold font at the center.

“Um, yeah, that’s us. Who are you?” Dream asked.

“I’m Karl,” the man responded, the same sweet smile never leaving his face. George nodded as they fell back into silence, staring at once another.

“So, do you need to check out a book?” He raised his brows in question, eyes expectant.

“Do we— what?” Dream replied, unable to keep the confused exasperation out of his voice. Karl laughed, relaxing his posture and breaking eye contact.

“Nah, I’m just playing,” he said in amusement. Dream’s hand shot to the gun tucked into his waistband as they watched Karl reach into the right-side drawer, but relaxed when he only pulled out a dark blue sign with _book logging, be back soon!_ Written across it. “I’ll show you to the room.”

They followed Karl out the foyer and further into the library. Inside, floor to ceiling bookcases lined the walls, with books ranging from falling apart in plastic bags to brand new, spine uncracked. Past the library were conference rooms, spaced out between paintings of different fungi and plants.

George noted the plaques with odd names next to each door in amusement, passing _Rutabagaville_ and _Kinoko Kingdom,_ until finally they came to stop at _El Rapids._

Karl knocked briefly on the door before opening it up, moving to the side to let them in.

“Quackity, your friends are here,” he said cheerfully. The conference room had been turned into a private poker room, with Quackity counting out chips on the dealers side as Sapnap played what looked like solitaire next to him on the velvet green table. The off-white walls had no windows or decorations, the small bar in the corner being the only other piece of accenting the space.

“Thanks Karl, appreciate it. Hey guys, how you doin’?” He said with a friendly smile, looking at them quickly before gazing back down at the chips, “I’m almost finished, one second.”

Karl stood still at the door as Dream and George filed past, looking expectantly at the other two men in the room.

“Sap, I need your help with something, come with me,” he said. Sapnap started to rise immediately, cleaning up his half-finished game of solitaire before being stopped by Quackity.

“Sapnap, no. Karl, he needs to be here,” Quackity countered, looking up from his chips. Sapnap froze, half out of his chair, eyes darting between the two men having a stare down with each other. Karl’s expression turned hard, just for a moment, eliciting a panicked glance from Sapnap to Quackity.

“Here’s the thing, _Quackity_ , I need him to help me sort out logs, so he is coming to help me, because _both_ of you said you would do it and now _you_ can’t, okay?” Karl said with finality. His tone held weight, like he was scolding a child.

George sat back in his chair across the table as they watched the power struggle play out. It was clear Karl had more power over the two of them than one would’ve expected— that much was confirmed by the lack of violence despite the dispute.

They had to be close, that much George was sure, because the words were met with an amused smile as opposed to a hardened glare at being told what to do. It lit a fire in Quackity’s eyes, like he was enjoying himself.

“What if I brought the logs in here, would that be okay?” Sapnap asked them both, still frozen in place.

Karl’s eyebrows shot up towards Quackity in question. He sighed, closing the metal chip case in front of him and clasping his hands on top. He stared down Karl for a few more seconds, breaking to roll his eyes at Karl’s exaggerated _hm? How ‘bout that, huh?_

“Fine, go. But if you’re not back here in 5 minutes I swear to god, I’m burning this whole place down,” he relented. Karl’s face brightened back up, any traces of any upset immediately gone. Sapnap cleaned the cards in front of him quickly, as though he was afraid Quackity might change his mind. Why he cared to go at all didn’t make sense to George; neither did the lack of malice in Quackity’s expression, or with the lack of fear in Karl’s.

“Sweetheart, you spent 10 million dollars on this anniversary present, if you burn it down that’s your problem,” Karl responded with a laugh.

Oh.

George glanced down at the simple gold band on Quackity’s finger, that matched the other man’s own.

“Stop provoking him, Karl, he’s no fun when he’s angry,” Sapnap commented, putting his hand on Karl’s lower back and steering him out of the room. The flash of the band on Sapnap’s finger set off a spark of realization in George’s mind.

_Oh_.

The sounds of them walking away were partially obstructed by the door, Karl’s joking _well, sometimes it’s fun, if you know what I’m sayin’,_ and Sapnap’s responding giggles muffled through the wood. It loud enough to make Quackity roll his eyes in fond exasperation.

George sat back in his seat, scanning him over, filling in the new information. The simple charm bracelet on his left wrist by his Rolex, two small letters dangling off of _N and K_ , the tattoos of fire and swirls that George is sure meant something to the three.

“Do you always mix business with pleasure, Quackity?” George asked in amusement, getting a crooked smile in return.

“Ah, George, what’s business without pleasure, huh? Pretty fucking boring, if you ask me,” he responded. “Life’s more fun when you make pleasure a priority.”

“I dunno, I think a little boring business beats dropping 10 million on a research library,” George responded with a laugh.

Quackity just waved him off with one hand, slowing rolling a chip between his fingers with the other. 

“It was an investment. Giving back to the community and all that, maybe a little bit of legal tax evasion. Have to use my law degree for something, after all.”

George hummed in understanding, leaning forward to rest his forearms on the poker table in front of him. His blue linen button down shirt was folded up to the elbows, allowing him to feel the shock of the cool plastic black trim around the sides of the table.

They fell into a brief silence, Quackity now tapping the side of a chip in a rhythmic pattern on the table. He seemed to be content waiting for Sapnap to come back before they got down to business, meaning he was surely part of whatever plan he had thought of.

“How did you guys meet?” Dream asked. “Was it before or after all this?”

Quackity looked down at the chip with a smile, like he was recalling a fond memory.

“In between, I guess. Long story short, I bet a fuck ton of money on Sapnap to win a fight at a club, and ended up meeting Karl, his boyfriend, while I was at it. The fight wasn’t going as well as it could’ve; so, I convinced Karl to cause a minor distraction until he won,” he said fondly.

“I wouldn’t call setting off an explosion in the bathroom a minor distraction,” Sapnap butted in, walking back into the room with Karl and a book cart in tow. Quackity waved him off.

“Details, details, honey. What’s important is that it worked, he won, and I took them out to dinner to celebrate, didn’t I?”

“Yeah, after Karl had to be taken to the emergency room for a broken arm,” Sapnap retorted. He threw an arm over Karl’s chair as he sat down, the other laying on his thigh where his gun sat in a holster. It was the most indiscreet show of protection George had ever seen— though he’s pretty sure discreet was never in their vocabulary to begin with.

“I looked cute in my pink cast though,” Karl said in a joking tone, earning a light laugh from Sapnap.

“That you did, baby, that you did.”

George wasn’t sure whether to be offended or amused at the lack of professionalism. He supposed the meeting at his house wasn’t the pillar of professionalism either, but he couldn’t help but feel slightly concerned with how unfazed the three seemed to be. Ge kind of enjoyed the unnatural behavior— their little world got boring when everyone got too serious.

Quackity clapped, sitting up straight and tossing the chip into the middle of the table, the words _small anti_ landing face up on the table.

“Now, let’s get into this meeting, shall we?”

They spoke for a while, slowly fleshing out terms of agreements. It was relatively simple; use the information Quackity had on Schlatt to uncover whatever the fuck he was trying to hide from the CIA. Sell the information to the highest bidder, preferably Russia, to be sold back to the US, effectively ending Schlatt’s attempt at a second campaign run.

“I don’t get it, why not just send it back to the CIA and let them deal with it?” Sapnap asked.

“Because the CIA will care to keep us on their radar. Anonymous or not, they’ll have people whose entire job is to figure out who leaked the information. Other countries, especially countries we have rocky relationships with like Russia, would just take credit for disclosing political secrets to the US government. Especially if it gets them a favor down the line, probably,” Dream responded, shifting uncomfortably in his seat before adding, “or something like that, I don’t know.”

George rolled his eyes, kicking Dream lightly under the table. It was something he noticed Dream did often, soften the blow of what he knows with an _I don’t know,_ or a _that’s just what I think._ He claimed it ruined the image of the dynamic, the perfectly balanced team of brains and brawn.

George thought the whole concept was dumb.

“That’s exactly why,” George affirmed, “but that’s not the part I don’t get. What’s in it for you?”

Quackity sighed, a self assuring smile on his face as he glanced over to his fiancés.

“I need you to get Techno to come to a meeting with me.”

“Absolutely not,” Sapnap shut down, slamming the book in his hand closed. “You really thought you could slip that one in, huh? Absolutely fucking not.”

“Let’s just be clear, just for a second. You mean the Techno that almost killed you, correct? That Technoblade?” Karl butt in. Quackity ignored them both, staring right at Dream instead.

“What makes you think I can get you a meeting with Technoblade?” Dream asked. His demeanor remained calm, but George could feel the slightly nervous bounce of Dream’s leg against his. Quackity’s smile grew as he leaned back in his chair.

“I have it on good authority that he owes you a favor. Use it or don’t use it, I don’t care. But you know at least where to cash it in. I’m assuming you know it’s better for you to go than for me to tell him you sent me, don’t you think?”

“If you went, you would get shot on sight,” Sapnap commented, words sharp with discontent, still looking somewhat bewildered at the reveal. Quackity shrugged again.

“I’ll admit we’re not on the best of terms. I provoked him, and I probably shouldn’t have. But I have a proposition for him, so I think it’s time to let bygones be bygones. So that’s the deal— the meeting for Schlatt’s files. We can shake on it now, or I’ll give, let’s say 24 hours, to think it over, how's that sound?"

George spared a glance at Dream. To the untrained eye, would assume everything was fine. After all, Dream had spent years in a ring perfecting a stoic stance, seeming unbothered by whatever was put in front of him. It took George years of knowing him to know just how much he hated being blinded sided, to notice the small tremor in his pinky, and the slight change from offensive to defensive posture. 

"Well let you know our decision tomorrow," George answered, an accepting nod from Quackity as he stood.

"Karl, will you walk them out, please?”

Karl rose without complaint, handing a book off to Sapnap and walking towards the door.

“Hey, Dream,” Quackity called out as they turned to leave.

He waited until Dream fully turned back to face him before he brought up his hand, cocking the a sleek black handgun equipped with a silencer with an easy grasp. George was shoved behind Dream before he even realized the gun had been pointed at him, blocked effectively by Dream’s body and his outstretched arm. His gun was already steadfastly pointed at Karl. The book landed on the table with a thud as Sapnap reached for his gun from his holster, but stopping when Karl threw up a hand, holding the deadlock in place.

“ _Huh_ ,” Quackity said, tilting the gun slightly. His tone was casual, as if the conversation was over breakfast and not a dangerous game of chicken. “Why Karl? He’s the only one not armed— you have more of a chance of making it out alive if you kill me or Sapnap, and then use Karl as a shield to get out of the building.”

Dream stood unshaken; hand steady despite Quackity’s lax demeanor.

“If I was trying to make it out alive, I would’ve shot already. I’m trying to not have you shoot in the first place. Both of you are more likely to save Karl than yourselves; if i pointed it at either one of you, the other would just kill me and Karl would run,” he responded, voice clear and certain.

George was sure Dream had run through the scenario of what to do best every time someone entered or exited the room. It was just the way he worked, analyzing and reanalyzing every situation as it developed. It made him dangerous, his mind almost as lethal as his aim, always two steps ahead.

It also, more times than not, made him a pain in George’s ass.

Quackity made a face of acceptance, like he was weighing the response against others past. He dropped his hand, removing the magazine and clicking the trigger to reset it before throwing it on the table.

Dream slowly lowered his arm, allowing the tension to drop as he uncocked his gun and tucked it back in his waistline. He made sure to stay in between George and Quackity as they walked to the door stopping briefly at the exit.

“And, just for the record, Karl’s not unarmed. I know a poison dart ring when I see one. The second I got close enough to grab him, I’d be as good as dead.”

Quackity’s eyes shot up in vague surprise, while Karl looked down at the ring on his middle finger.

“It’s a nice ring too, isn’t it? Sapnap got it for me,” Karl asked, holding his hand out to Dream and George. The ring was a simple gold square spiral encrusted with diamonds— and now that George was closer, he could see the faint line surrounding it, the telltale sign of a hidden compartment below. His hands were delicate, not unlike George’s, with most of his nails were painted black and what George assumed was bright red on his ring finer. He could tell by the lack of scars and callouses littering his hands how little Karl had to do with his fiancés dealings, probably spending his days amongst books and history as opposed to death and destruction.

They sat in silence for a moment, letting the moment pass before Karl perked up again. “Anyway, come with me.”

Dream and George followed Karl back out into the hallway, his demeanor again showing no fear despite putting his back to the man who had his life in his hands a mere minute ago.

“When did you guys get married?” George wondered. He did extensive research on Quackity before the meeting, and it never mentioned anything about a husband, let alone two. Karl spun around to walk backwards, weaving through the tables and shelves with ease.

“We’re actually not married, we’re engaged,” he responded. That explained that.

“Are you going to get married?” Dream asked. Karl scoffed, turning back around.

“Are we going to get married,” he mimicked. “You don’t know the _half_ of it.”

George hummed. He couldn’t help but notice that he didn’t actually answer the question, but he let it slide. He was curious, not interrogating the man.

They walked past the people started to shuffle in for poker, mainly old women and men who all seemed to know Karl by name. He responded to them in kind, smiling and waving with a gentle tone. A few of them looked curiously at the two of them, who stayed silent somewhat awkwardly until they reached the front.

Karl gave a warm goodbye as if they were lifelong friends, leaving them to walk out themselves in favor of helping a man with a cane get to his seat.

They walked back into the sunshine, low on the horizon but still shining as George squinted against the light. He pulled his sunglasses down back over his eyes, blinking the purple spots away as he took one last glance over his shoulder at the building.

“Well, that whole meeting was a giant red fucking flag,” Dream said as they walked back to their car, keys in hand.

“Really? I kinda liked it, it was fun,” George responded, repeatedly tugging on the door handle until Dream unlocked the car.

“Yeah, I bet you did. You’re as colorblind to metaphorical red flags as you are to real ones.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so yeah, i got a bit caught up in the fiances dynamic, and sure, maybe i spent the most amount of time figuring out what pet name karl would use, but its FUN OKAY. 
> 
> i went back and forth on whether or not to include sbi characters in this, but the rest of the story fits so much better with techno instead of some random person so i guess were going for it lmao
> 
> kudos and comments always appreciated <3 see you with the next chapter soon!!

**Author's Note:**

> First chapter done!! Pinning down their characterizations and jumping between banter and violence was a bigger feat than i suspected, but it was fun to write!!
> 
> This is my first fic for this fandom and my first chaptered fic, so go easy on me- I'll try my best to get the next part up asap :) kudos and comments are appreciated if you have any feedback!!


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